


The Cold Evening Aches

by WhisperOfTheDay



Category: Fallout 4, Gravity Falls
Genre: Fallout Earth AU, Gen, Grunkle Ford's Portal Adventures, Hurt/Comfort, Nothing too angsty here, S!Stan has issues, Synth Stan, They both do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 04:27:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11638893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhisperOfTheDay/pseuds/WhisperOfTheDay
Summary: Fire illuminates their bruised faces, so similar yet so fundamentally different.





	The Cold Evening Aches

**Author's Note:**

> This crossover was created by my friend Julientel. It's called Fallout Earth AU and the summary of it is here: http://julientel.tumblr.com/post/163018063821/so-this-kinda-looks-like-a-poster-to-fallout
> 
> I feel priviliged to be included in the development process of this story. My dream is to write it from beginning to end so that everybody could marvel at it's intricacy.
> 
> (If you love listening to music while reading, I recommend "Haunt" by Bastille (better instrumental). It's where the title came from btw.)
> 
> This oneshot takes place during the time they travel the wastelands.

They are sitting on the floor by the fire, inside the remnants of a terraced house. The street is deserted, every other houses alongside it are empty, same as this entire suburb. The fading light from the setting sun seeps through the shattered glass of a single window in what previously was a living room. Fire illuminates their bruised faces, so similar yet so fundamentally different. One person's eyes still hold that excited spark of curiosity and desire for knowledge, not yet stomped out by the hardships and struggles of the kind of life he is living. And the other one's inhuman eyes never had life in them to begin with.

Both are focused on their work, while the dinner is being prepared in a pan hanging above the fireplace.

Stan tears his gaze away from his little "diary", would you call it, to look at the canned soup and mix it with a steel rod he dig up (and boiled to sterilize beforehand).

"I think it's ready." When Ford doesn't even make a move to lift his head, Stan calls his name sternly. The traveller simply gives a muffled sound of acknowledgement, still remaining in his hunched position.

The synth then reaches to poke the man in front of him with the dirty and hot end of the stick. His irritated glowing eyes are finally met with the brown human ones, which seem to still be relieving the experience that he's been recording in his journal seconds ago. "Poindexter, I'm not the one who's gonna eat that food, so why don't cha take part in it's cookin, ha?" A second passes. Stanford finally comes back to Earth, setting his little book aside, "Yes. I guess that's fair." Stan rolls his eyes, handing him the metal plate he also found in the garbage lying everywhere around (and also sterilized).

He settles back down on his metallic butt, hearing his joints creak in protest. _How can this thing still manage to hold up after this long? Heh._

_The dude who put you together must be a genius._

 

Suddenly, something appears from the fog that is most of his mind, but disappears before he can get a glance.

 

 

"So. Whacha writin'?" Here. He started a conversation.

Ford, now having a full plate of hot soup in his hands, stops blowing at it and briefly looks up at Stan. The synth can swear his features even lit up a bit. Success.

"Well. I was honestly fascinated by that unique flora representative I saw near the crater we passed by today. From by my experience on this dimension's Earth I can state that any signs of life near places of nuclear blasts are a rare occurrence. Though this one looked not unlike a cared for garden with a variety of plants of different lifeforms! I have been speculating on how they might have appeared here. Having a possibility to sample the ground would be great, that might have given some answers. I also noted some distinctive difference in some plants' basic flower structure, compared to those on my Earth, indicating that it might have been subjected to mutation triggered by radioactive elements..."

Right. Leave it to Ford to blubber about flowers for goddamn hours straight. At least it's making him a little bit happier through all this.. shit.

So much like his brother.. not his- the original Stan's. Not his. He isn't h-

"Stanley!" Oops, he drifted off.

"Wha wow chill! Wanna draw some freaks on us or what?"

"I'm going to guess you weren't listening."

"I just lived though it today with ya, why retell it to me! And I don't get most of your science junk."

"Ugh." Eye roll. Stan mimics it perfectly, earning a scoff from the man, who then picks up his now barely warm soup again.

 

The synth watches through the half-ruined window as the sky turns a darker shade of pink on the horizon where sun disappeared. Then he moves to pick up a journal of his own and starts writing again. He doesn't even notice himself getting lost in thought again as the next thing he hears is his brother ( _not your brother **drop it** )_ calling his name what must be the third time.

"What?!" he rudely snaps. Ford doesn't flinch nor does he shout back. His empty bowl is set aside, he has his book in his hands again. And his expression borders on something too similar to sympathy. _Where did that come from and why_

"What are you writing? Share with me," he pulls up a smirk.

"Wanna tease me about it? Nah, nerd, that's not gonna happen." The synth averts his eyes to look down at the shabby notebook in his hands again, cutting off any further conversation point-blank. _You goof. Racked your brains over how to start one a minute ago_

Ford is silent for some time, Stan even thinks he returned back to his own business. But then he hears a sound of a hard cover hitting paper, and realises that he isn't going to be left alone today.

"You know, I'm not a complete jackass to make fun of people for their personal recordings."

"You do realise you just hinted that I'm a jackass."

"Stan p-lease" They both laugh half-heartedly for a bit. Ford is sitting on a piece of fabric they found in the house, his folded sleeping bag beneath him. He pulls knees up and puts his arms on them. A little shiver goes through his body. The air is cooling down. The fire is flickering, sending waves of warmth wherever the wind blows.

 

Of course the synth is incapable of feeling any of it.

 

"I was.. I am-" Why is his mouth saying this? _Too late_ "writing my memories down".

The dimension hopper looks his way. His face, now illuminated by the relatively bright light, doesn't look so young, he notices. This man has been battered badly, and not only in physical way.

Stan casts his gaze on the dusty cement. _I feel sorry for him. Hey, focuse! _Right. He just started opening up about stuff. Can't stop now. ( _you don't wanna stop now_ )

"Ya know," he shrugs irritated at himself, not knowing how to phrase it, "to put stuff in order. Since I met you I've been.. remembering, and, like, a lot, for some flipping reason" One of his legs lies on the floor bent at the knee. He rests his hand on the other that is pulled up, making a "whatever" gesture with it. This hand's tissue isn't yet torn to shards, unlike the left one, so the metallic carcass isn't exposed and creaky, which is a cause for joy.

"And.. it doesn't end up," he says it rather quietly, though Ford catches it nonetheless. The following question wasn't long in coming.

"What exactly?"

"A damn lot of stuff," he doesn't understand why he sounds so defensive. He did actually start this- monologue- himself. Well, he is a jackass after all. "But. Mostly that guy's real life and this," he gestured at his artificial body. "My life. I guess. I can't pin down the moment when it happened. I have no idea how it could even happen. I mean.. What the hell- how did the poor guy even get into this shit?

I remember.. war. I think I remember going to the war. Or planning to... There’s just, like.. fear? And twitching, and restlessness, and other emotional junk. And also your ugly mug." "We share the same fa-" "And another one that keeps coming in and out of focus- argh, this whole thing pisses me off! It doesn't end up, I've got only bits and pieces! It's so fucking frustrating, I- Jeez, I never even wondered much about it, I knew I had all this in my brain once but then I didn't and I did I care? No. Like, what's the point? It's not my life, I remember my life, and- it doesn't even have anything much to remember. It's not a life even.

I know I hate you- not you\- for fucks sake!" he got pretty loud. "And that's not even that simple! Never this simple. It's always just a jumble.

That's what I remember! Just emotions! And no explanation to them. That's what sucks the most. For some reason I have this.. anger. Towards that other Ford. And resentment. And I feel like it came from.. me. Not the other guy. I can't tell. And it's freaking me out now more than ever." _I thought you just said you remember your life clearly. loser._ "Though I feel like.. like I owe him, or something. And, Jeez, of course I care about him. Cared." _Well, that sounded not right._ A sad sign escapes him. "It's a mess. And every day with you it gets messier. And every day I get new bits, but they are insignificant, like from childhood or somethin'. I don't know, today I got a memory of him geeking out about turtles." Ford snickers quietly.

Stan cracks a smile too, though after spilling his heart out like this he feels rather worn out. Which is new, since he forgot the last time he experienced this feeling. It is.. pleasant. Though of course fearing for his companion's life when he is pulling some stunt in order to get a closer look at some weird thing, or the anxiety he feels when they explore an unknown territory, or that time when he could say he was worrying sick when Ford had a strong fever after not eating or sleeping for several days in order to find a way to fix the synth's conked out brains, or any other time Ford gets injured- all that surely delivers its punch to the robot's seemingly non-existent nervous system. Luckily he is not physically affected by all this in the long run, how can he be.

He's just glad to feel again.

 

When Stan comes back to reality, he is met with a small, but sincere smile.

He realises he is smiling in a sweet, nostalgic-like way, himself. He corrects that slip pretty fast.

Ford rubs his hands together, breathes on them a few times, then turns away, rising from his spot in order to unpack the sleeping bag.  
  
  
"Glad you shared. I'm sure you'll find answers sooner or later. I'll help with what I can."  
  
"Don't get all sappy on me, dork."  
  
"Yes, yes. You wish."  
  
"God, save me from this."  
  
He can practically hear a smile in the irritated tongue clicking sound his friend produces, having already laid down, face away from the weakening fire and him.  
  
  
The synth looks out the window, the sky has no traces of red now, and the stars are barely seen behind the thick clouds that are almost always there as far as he can remember.   
  
Though his childhood memories are bright, he'd give them that.  
  
  
  
  
"You keep watch."  
  
"Sure."  
  
"Goodnight, Stanley."  
  
"Night."

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are deeply appreciated! And don't hesitate to point out grammatical or other errors so that I could correct them and try to avoid repeating in the future. This isn't my native language and I try to do my best. This is also my first actual fic, so you will easily make my day by saying how you feel about it.
> 
> \---------------------------------
> 
> What you just read might be puzzling, and I'll leave you at that MUAHA hA


End file.
